


go on and let the rain pour

by thisismydesignn



Series: wild thoughts [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Dancing, M/M, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Sex, Women's Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 10:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: It's incredible, the difference a single day can make. Peter's determined, and all Tony needs is one good reason not to say no…





	go on and let the rain pour

**Author's Note:**

> I really did mean for [when the world has dealt its cards](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10949385) to be a standalone fic, but I could not get these two out of my head. Tom Holland's hips truly have ruined my life. (Thank you so much to everyone who's read that one, and many apologies for not yet having a chance to respond to comments— hoping to do so soon!)
> 
> Wanted to get this posted before the movie comes out and Josses it all— two days to spare! Series title from DJ Khaled/Rihanna/Bryson Tiller's song of the same name; fic title from, of course, [Umbrella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xGOCxIEW6s).

Peter turns seventeen, and their carefully choreographed dance around the subject goes to hell.

It starts out subtly enough in the weeks leading up to his birthday. Peter stepping too close to Tony in the lab under the guise of observing his work, close enough for deliberate brushes of skin on skin that could be written off as accidental— _could_ be, if neither of them knew better; Peter dropping hints about his upcoming birthday, working it into conversation as often as possible, searching Tony’s face for any hint of a reaction. (Tony never gives him the satisfaction.)

In those few weeks, Tony learns more about Peter’s love life than he ever needed to know. He listens to him alternately marvel and mope over his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Liz, watches the way his face lights up whenever he mentions someone named MJ before quickly changing the subject, and then, in an interesting development one day, hears him muse, “And then there’s this guy Harry…”

And Tony’s not surprised by that except that he is, a bit; wasn’t sure that Peter Parker, Peter Parker who’s _just_ Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, not anyone but himself, would pursue a guy. Unsure how to articulate this, Tony says nothing, but Peter can tell he’s piqued Tony’s interest. “I’ve never really _been_ with a guy before, though,” he says, watching him carefully. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do,” and Tony’s seen porn that begins more subtly than this. “You’ll figure it out,” he says instead of taking the bait. “You’ve got all the same equipment.” He very deliberately does not take notice of Peter’s disappointed expression when he changes the subject and, like the adult he very much is, is relieved when Peter doesn’t mention it again.

(He does slip up, once, when Peter is talking about Liz: “But what if she’s not, y’know, the one?” Not thinking, Tony responds honestly: “She doesn’t have to be _the one_. You’re in high school— you have plenty of time to figure out what it is you want. Just don’t do it behind her back and don’t string her along if she’s expecting more from you than you can give.”

He means every word, but doesn’t stop to think about what that could mean for— whatever this thing is that’s been brewing between them. A week later, Peter Parker is single, and Tony starts cursing his own name.)

Still, they both stick to their unspoken promise— nothing more happens between them even as the tension grows, until it finally comes to a head the night before Peter’s birthday.

 

 

It’s not unusual for Peter to call Tony close to midnight, checking in with his nightly report; somewhat more unusual for him to linger on the line afterward, ultimately abandoning all pretense as he hesitates, murmurs, “...I still can’t stop thinking about that night.”

Tony doesn’t need to ask which one. He had known all along that this was coming; he also knows there’s no point in denying, pretending any longer. “I know.” He pauses. “I think about it too.”

Peter’s voice is low, hushed when he speaks next, like he can’t believe himself, or maybe like he’s trying not to get caught. “I think about you every time I jerk off,” and Tony hears it now— the rustle of clothing, the hitch in his breath, the noises escaping the back of Peter’s throat that Tony, fuck, _remembers,_ remembers all too clearly. “Don’t make a mess of the Spider-Suit,” he cracks; it’s a pathetic attempt at deflection and he knows it, listens to Peter huff out a chuckle that ends on a moan and tries, fails, not to picture the scene in his mind.

Tony’s hard, impossibly hard but it’s not until Peter makes a noise of frustration that he trips over himself, asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Peter breathes, immediate. “All the things I want you to do to me— that I wanna do to you. Want you to be my first...my first so many things,” and Tony breaks, reaching into his boxers, shutting his eyes, shuddering as he gives in. “Are you touching yourself?” Peter asks a moment later, quiet, vulnerable and hopelessly turned on; “Yeah— yes,” Tony confirms, and Peter’s broken “ _fuck,_ ” has his hand speeding up, has him inching closer to the edge than he’d ever admit.

“I know you wish I were the one touching you right now,” Tony says, because screw the consequences: they’re long past the point of no return. Peter’s response is muffled, but clearly an affirmation. “I do too,” Tony continues, thinking about Peter sprawled across his bed, looking up at him with those _eyes_ — “Know what your lips taste like, but how about the rest of you?”

Peter whines, and Tony would swear he can hear the sound of skin on skin as Peter’s breathing gets heavier. He thumbs deliberately over the head of his cock, feels his hips jerk; eases his grip down, imagines sliding into Peter instead, and is blindsided by the wave of _want_ that hits him, all the things he hasn’t let himself think about. He feels like he can’t breathe. He keeps talking.

“Peter,” he says, “Tell me how it feels,” and Peter gasps, loving how filthy his name sounds on Tony’s tongue. “So fucking— you feel so good,” and he almost hesitates at the slip but relaxes when he hears Tony groan. That sound, the thought that Tony’s getting off on this as much as he is, is overwhelming. His hand speeds up of its own accord, and Peter’s done holding out. “Mr. Stark— I’m so close—”

“God, if I were there,” Tony tells him, voice low, “I’d make it so good for you,” and it sounds so close to a promise that Peter can’t help but picture it, Mr. Stark’s lips on his skin, body heavy over his own, hands on his waist as he— “Fuck— fuck, I’m gonna—” and he’s barely spoken before he’s coming, trying to keep quiet, failing miserably as he hears Tony follow suit, come streaking his fingers, boxers, sheets.

They’re both breathing hard, unsure how to break the silence; whereas moments earlier nothing had felt off limits, now _everything_ does, and neither wants to be the first to risk it.

At least until Tony’s eyes fall upon the clock and he lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shattering the tension. “Happy birthday, Peter.”

Peter’s perplexed for a moment before it dawns on him, and he pulls the phone away from his face to check.

It’s 12:01 AM.

He lifts the phone back up to his ear, grinning, just in time to hear Tony say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Peter yawns, so far gone, so worn out he doesn’t even question it as he murmurs, “G’night,” in response. He’s half-asleep before the phone hits the pillow beside his head—

 

 

—and it’s not until the next day, riding the subway beside Aunt May, that it occurs to him again. _See you tomorrow?_ “Hold up.” He turns to Aunt May. “Are we going to Avengers Tower?”

She glances at Peter sidelong, as though debating whether or not to tell him. It’s all the answer he needs. _“Why?”_

“I thought you’d be excited,” she says. “I wanted to do something special for your birthday— something nicer than just the two of us in the apartment,” and Peter can hear the edge of sadness that creeps into her voice. He leans into her, silent, comforting, listens as she sighs and continues, “So I asked Tony if he wouldn’t mind hosting us. He’s very fond of you, you know,” and Peter hopes she doesn’t notice the way he flushes at that statement. _Oh, if you only knew._

(It’s nothing compared to the blush creeping up his neck, his cheeks, as they step into the Tower only to be greeted by Tony— whose face, of course, doesn’t betray a thing.) “Hey there, birthday boy,” he says, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder all too briefly before turning to his aunt. “Lovely as ever, May.” Peter can tell she’s refraining from rolling her eyes, but she softens as she thanks Tony. “We really appreciate all of this,” she says, and Peter jumps in to echo her.

“You didn’t need to do all of this. Thank you guys,” he says, sincere, looking between the two of them before glancing across the room to where Happy is arranging a few finishing touches. “And you too, Happy!” He grins as Happy simply raises a hand in acknowledgement, unsmiling as ever, then turns back to Aunt May. “Can I talk to Mr. Stark for a sec? I had a question about this project we’ve been working on.” May raises her eyebrows.

“It’s your day off!” Tony says, and Peter shoots him a pleading look out of May’s line of sight. Luckily, she’s already given up on them and is making her way toward Happy to help him finish setting up. “You two have fun being geniuses.” Only when Peter’s sure she’s out of earshot does he turn to Tony and quietly demand, “What the hell’s going on?”

“She came to me a month ago,” Tony explains, steering them further away as he speaks. “Wanted it to be a surprise. I couldn’t exactly refuse.” He reconsiders this. “I didn’t _want_ to refuse. Believe it or not, I do actually like you, kid. Have since long before—” ( _Since long before my dick got involved_ , he doesn’t say) “—you know.”

Peter’s flushed again; doesn’t know what to say, where to start. Tony saves him, sort of— steps in close under the guise of straightening Peter’s jacket, keeping his voice low (Peter thinks of the night before, tries desperately to think of anything else). “We can talk about it later, I promise. For now, just have a good time, yeah?” His hands linger on Peter’s chest, slip down to his waist for the briefest of moments, so fleeting that no one else would notice but more than enough to leave Peter aching for more.

“Looks like your friends are arriving,” Tony says, voice at a normal volume as he looks past Peter; Peter takes a moment to compose himself before turning around to see Ned walking through the door, expression awestruck as he takes in his surroundings.

“Dude,” Ned says, before catching sight of Tony. “Wait. You’re—”

Tony strides over to him, hand outstretched, perfectly _on_ , in his element. Peter envies how easily it comes to him. “Tony Stark. Nice to meet you…?”

“Ned,” Ned fills in, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Ah, so _you’re_ Ned,” Tony says, cracking a practiced smirk. “Good to put a face to the name.”

“Peter’s mentioned me?” He redirects his question as a sufficiently composed Peter approaches them. “You’ve mentioned me?”

“‘Course I have, dude, c’mon,” Peter says, pulling him in for a bro hug. “We’ve gotta get you in the lab one of these days.” Ned slaps his back enthusiastically. “Happy birthday, man.”

 

 

Tony’s not precisely sure what constitutes a “good party” among teenagers these days, particularly one with adult supervision, but for all intents and purposes, the evening seems to be a success. He’s momentarily worried when Liz puts in an appearance, but as awkward as she and Peter are together, they’re remarkably civil. Tony watches the Harry that Peter had mentioned work the room like a pro until he realizes: he’s Harry Osborn, son of Norman, and that, well— that’s something worth looking into. And then there’s Ned.

Ned, who Tony learns is nearly as smart as Peter; Ned, who can talk a mile a minute about everything or nothing in particular; Ned, who pauses essentially in the middle of a thought to turn to Tony and tell him in no uncertain terms that he’s working Peter too hard. “He’s here nearly every night,” Ned insists, and Tony nods, shrugs. “I’ve told him to take some time off,” he says, “But you know how stubborn he is.”

Ned considers this. “True. And he is obsessed with this place. With—” _With you_ , Tony would swear he’s about to say, but Ned hesitates, pulls back. “It’s like...like he’s finally getting to prove himself. Be who he’s always wanted to be.” He looks uncertain. “I don’t even know when he sleeps, but he seems...I guess he seems good. Better than he’s been in a while.”

(Peter could tell Ned his secret, Tony thinks. He’s got a big mouth, but maybe not when it counts.)

All in all, everything’s going well— at least until “Single Ladies” comes over the speakers and Peter’s friend Michelle drags him to the middle of the dance floor. Peter protests for all of six seconds before giving in to the beat, grin on his face as he lets his hips take over, strutting across the floor behind Michelle. They’ve got quite an audience surrounding them, cheering them on, and they look like they’re having the time of their lives: they clearly know every step, and Tony once again feels his mouth go dry as he watches Peter dance. He’s still in awe at how fluidly he moves, the spread of his thighs as he dips low, lifts a hand to run his fingers through his hair, hips swiveling all the while. Beyonce sings, “I need no permission,” and Peter flips his head back, catches Tony’s eye, and winks— never missing a beat. Tony can’t believe what he’s seeing, and he can’t look away.

Finally, and all too soon, the song comes to an end. Peter’s panting, forehead glistening with sweat, smiling so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners. He and Michelle embrace for a brief moment before she laughs and pushes him away; Peter turns to Tony next, looking like a man on a mission. There’s a bit of a sway in his hips as he crosses the room, and it takes all of Tony’s willpower not to groan; (all and then some not to reach for Peter, pull him in for a kiss that promises much, much more).

“What’d you think?” Peter asks cheekily as he leans down to grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge beside Tony; he lingers just a moment, eyes level with Tony’s crotch, the beginnings of a bulge unmistakable in his jeans. When Peter straightens up, his eyes are sparkling. “That good, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Tony tells him, staring right back, daring him to look away first.

(Tony loses and Peter walks away with an air of victory, of having won something far greater than a staring contest.)

 

 

Tony finds himself next to Michelle a few minutes later, which is, of course, at least partly by design. “That was a pretty impressive routine,” he says in an attempt to break the ice; she smiles fiercely in return. “Thanks. We learned it for the talent show last year. First place.”

“Nicely done,” Tony acknowledges. He’s at a frankly surprising loss for anything further to say, and Michelle is about to start toward a group of her friends when she thinks better of it and pauses, turning back. She studies him carefully for a long moment before concluding, “Cool party, Mr. Stark.” She tilts her can of Coke almost imperceptibly in his direction, then continues back toward her friends. Tony watches her go, feeling surprisingly flattered: he gets the impression that’s about the highest level of praise she’s ever willing to offer. He decides to take it as the compliment it is.

(Something about her reminds him of Natasha. Detached, cool, probably too intelligent and perceptive for her own good. Still— it’s not a bad thing.)

 

 

The party starts winding down not long after that, until it’s just the four of them left: Happy, May, Peter and Tony. Happy looks around at the mess apprehensively until Tony tells him to take off. “You helped plenty today. Thanks, man.” May offers to stay behind, help clean up, but Tony dismisses the idea immediately. “Don’t worry about it. I can take care of all this.”

Peter finally chimes in. “I’d— I’d actually like to stay, if that’s alright?” He looks at Tony, Aunt May, back to Tony. “I can help clean up, and I know it’s the weekend, but I’d really like to keep working on that project, if— if you wouldn’t mind.” Tony scrutinizes him and for a long moment it’s like they’ve both forgotten May is there, the silence stretching out until Tony responds, “Alright. You wanna crash here tonight?”

Tony could object. He could refuse to let Peter stay— tell Aunt May to take him home, put him to bed, treat him like the _kid_ he worries Tony thinks he is. Instead he’s looking Peter in the eye, asking what he wants, asking _permission_. “Yeah,” Peter breathes. “Yes. If it’s—” He cuts himself off and finally breaks eye contact with Tony to turn his gaze upon Aunt May, who shrugs. “If you really don’t mind, Tony,” and Tony pulls himself together, offers her a reassuring smile. “Not at all.”

Five minutes later, May is gone, and the silence that settles between them this time is full of just as much tension as the night before— and even more possibility. “So,” Peter begins, because he didn’t wait this long for them to get absolutely nowhere. “Should I...apologize for last night?” Tony opens his mouth, shuts it, considers. “Open your present. Then decide.” He goes to retrieve it. “I’ll be right back.”

“The party wasn’t my present?” Peter asks when he returns; Tony just smirks and hands him a small box. Peter unwraps his gift quickly, intrigued, lifting the lid and folding the tissue paper aside to reveal a pair of lace panties much like the ones he’d taken from Tony’s closet all those months before. These, though, are red with blue trim, nearly the exact shade of Peter’s Spider-Suit. There’s a moment of stunned silence before a slow grin starts to spread across Peter’s face; he lifts the lingerie from the tissue paper and sets the box aside, looking between the lace and Tony, mischief sparkling in his gaze. “I guess I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed that last time, huh?”

“Was it not obvious?” Tony counters, and Peter concedes with a shrug. He passes the panties from one hand to the other, eyes fixed on the delicate lace as it slips through his fingers. Within moments he’s stepped close (too close) to Tony, face tilted up to his, intent unmistakable; Tony doesn’t step back, and Peter lets that embolden him. “Will you let me say thank you?”

(There’s a part of Tony that might want to— knows he probably, maybe, should— say no.

The problem is that every other part of him sees the way Peter is looking at him, like there’s _nothing_ he doesn’t want from Tony at that very moment, and, well. Who is he to deny him that?

Tony gets it, even. He’s never quite forgotten or relinquished that sense of urgency that accompanies youth, the heightened desire for everything at once, and now—) He gives up and gives in, curling one hand around the back of Peter’s neck as he leans in for a kiss, and surrender, he thinks, has never tasted quite so sweet.

Where their last kiss had been measured, careful, this one’s anything but. Peter’s got the lapels of Tony’s jacket in his hands (red and blue lace still twisted in his grip, pressed to Tony’s chest), holding him close as he kisses him like he’s making up for lost time. He’s picked up a thing or two since the last time they did this, Tony realizes as he walks them backwards to the nearest couch. There’s a confidence in the way he kisses that wasn’t there before, and as Tony sits Peter follows more than willingly, straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips as one hand comes up to tangle in the hair at the base of Tony’s neck.

Tony catches Peter’s lower lip between his teeth and smiles into the kiss as Peter grinds down against him in retaliation. Tony’s hands slide around Peter’s waist and under his shirt, fingertips hot on his skin, coaxing the smallest noises from the back of Peter’s throat. He knows, logically, that of course Peter is in shape, but it’s somehow still startling to _feel_ the evidence— the taut definition of his abs, the way his muscles tense and tremble as he moans.

Peter’s hips are still moving when Tony reaches for his jeans and he shivers, stills, covering Tony’s hands with his own. He drags his lips from Tony’s like it causes him great pain to do so; Tony freezes, but the half-smile on Peter’s face is anything but discouraging. “Gimme one sec,” he murmurs, leaning down for a lingering kiss before slipping off his lap and dashing to a nearby room, pulling the door shut behind him. (Tony stares at the door, hands at his sides, warring with himself, and realizes with a pang that it’s the same room he watched Peter in, that first time. Seconds pass, agonizingly slow, and Tony starts to— not regret, but wonder if perhaps he should—)

And then the door opens and all questions of _should_ vanish with the last of Tony’s willpower.

Peter’s walking toward him dressed in nothing but the brightest red lace panties with blue trim that should, for all intents and purposes, probably look ridiculous.

They look anything but.

Tony can’t seem to move, to figure out what to do with his hands, to decide where to look (at Peter’s face, uncertain but eager; at the expanse of his exposed skin, so tempting; at the bulge tucked carefully into, barely held back by, delicate lace that seems to swell with each step). Peter comes to a stop mere feet from Tony, cheeks flushed but hands steady. “So,” he says, voice barely a murmur, “What d’you think?”

And there it is: the confirmation, the permission Tony didn’t realize he was still waiting for. He’s on his feet within seconds, stopping directly in front of Peter; his hands settle on Peter’s waist as he _looks_ , just looks, for a long moment before sinking to his knees. His hands slide down to Peter’s hips, thumbs tracing the intricate patterns of the lace. Tony watches his eyes flutter shut, back open, and never once looks away as he leans in to press his lips to Peter’s cock, straining through the thin material.

Peter gasps, hands instinctively threading through Tony’s hair; he doesn’t break eye contact either, transfixed, overwhelmed as Tony’s mouth teases along his length, torturously slow. A slip of tongue, the slightest edge of teeth to keep Peter on, away from the edge, and only when Tony’s sure Peter can hardly stand it— hell, can hardly _stand_ — does he tug the lace aside and take the head of Peter’s cock between his lips.

“Fuck,” Peter curses, hips jerking forward; Tony hums his approval as he draws Peter closer, taking more of him into his mouth. He pulls back to let his tongue curve around the head once more before sinking back down, hands on Peter’s ass, feeling his cock jump between his lips. Lace drags across Peter’s skin, the heat and suction of Tony’s mouth leaving him weak like he hasn’t felt in months, and it’s almost a relief— to let the world narrow down to this moment, his hands in Tony Stark’s hair, cock in his mouth, focused on nothing but trying to remember how to breathe.

He comes embarrassingly quickly, though Tony doesn’t seem to mind. Peter barely thinks to tug at his hair, murmur a warning, but Tony just smirks and stays precisely where he is. He swallows before sitting back, thumbing away a streak of white from the corner of his mouth; Peter’s looking at Tony almost reverently as he gets to his feet and tilts Peter’s chin up to capture his lips in a kiss.

Within moments, Peter’s hands are at the zip of Tony’s jeans; Tony makes a soft noise against his mouth and pulls away, ignoring Peter’s muted groan of frustration. “You don’t have to,” Tony tells him— because he has to say it, has to be sure that Peter’s sure, even now. Peter presses his body to Tony’s in response, and Tony is— not amazed, but maybe a bit— that Peter is still hard, still _wants_. ( _Nonexistent refractory period, of course_ , Tony thinks distantly), his fingers unconsciously dancing across the bare, hyper-sensitive skin of Peter’s hip; Peter’s eyes fall shut for just a moment as he inhales sharply before blinking open to meet Tony’s gaze. “And what if I want to?”

Tony knows that even if he could pretend he wanted to deny Peter, the kid would somehow manage to twist him up, to get what he wanted, and honestly, it’s almost admirable. He shakes his head, lips curved into a smile; leans down to kiss Peter once more before leading the way to his bedroom.

He lets ( _lets_ , as though he’s anything but desperate for it) Peter push him down to the bed and climb into his lap, matching Tony’s grin with one of his own— far from innocent, asking for everything and promising even more.

 

 

They discover plenty about one another— and, hell, themselves— as the night unfolds, until they’re both exhausted, inextricably twisted up in the sheets, in each other, and above all, satisfied.

Peter is a fast learner— not that that’s news, but Tony watches him kneel beside the bed, mimic the way he’d touched Peter only minutes earlier, and it’s hard not to be impressed. It’s the same kind of precision he’s seen from him in the lab, following Tony’s lead; he’s too enthusiastic, eager at first (taking him a bit too deep, choking and pulling back— but then he’s sinking right back down, determined, taking his time as he takes Tony apart).

He’s also just as sensitive as he’d told Tony, kisses from his collarbone to the hollows of his hips eliciting the most enticing noises. He comes twice while Tony is fucking him (once in his lap, knees on either side of Tony as he straddles, rides him, biting his lip; the next, flat on his back, Tony’s body above his as he thrusts into him with deep strokes, Peter’s hand on the back of his neck, moans muffled by Tony’s mouth against his own). It becomes a sort of game, almost: seeing which spots make him moan, which make him lose focus and which make him hyper-aware, and as Tony’s fingers curl around Peter’s throat, testing, applying just the slightest bit of pressure (Peter lets out a low whine and presses up harder into his touch, begging for more), it occurs to him that he isn’t sure whether the object of the game is to win or to lose.

Somewhere along the line, Tony tells Peter that he can call him by his first name. Peter looks skeptical as he considers this, tries it out on his tongue. “It just doesn’t sound right.” (As it turns out, they both find they prefer “Mr. Stark,” particularly as it falls from Peter’s lips, a litany of gasps as his thighs, hands, voice tremble with _need_.)

And then there’s the way Peter _moves_. Unsurprising, after seeing him dance, after seeing him _fight_ , and yet— feeling it, the fluid motion of his hips as he fucks himself on Tony’s cock, is intoxicating, that confidence and control that’s somehow both at odds and perfectly in line with everything he knows of Peter Parker, of Spider-Man, at once disconnected and impossible to separate from one another.

He gazes down at Tony like he knows what he’s thinking, lips shining, parted on a moan as he lets his body do the work; there’s no trace of self-consciousness, of shying away from Tony’s pleasure or his own, and it occurs to Tony distantly that _maybe one day he’ll dance for me—_

—and then Tony, realizing that Peter’s got the right idea, stops thinking altogether. He takes his own advice and lets himself _feel_ everything, his lips on Peter’s skin, hands in his hair, murmuring _you feel better than I let myself imagine_ as the shiver that runs through Peter’s body races through his own, and when Peter says _I want,_ all Tony has left to say is _yes_.

 

 

Peter wakes up in Tony’s bed the next morning (tangled in impossibly luxurious sheets, Tony’s hand on his bare waist) and can’t believe that this is his life.

“Did that answer some questions?” Tony asks once they’ve made their way to the kitchen, mug of coffee in his hand; Peter’s perched on the counter, legs swinging aimlessly. He offers a half-shrug in response. “Most of them. I’m sure I could think of more. Scientific method, right?” he adds jokingly. “Gotta test everything.”

“Just a tip: most people don’t appreciate it when you bring science into the bedroom,” Tony tells him. The look Peter gives him in return is skeptical to say the least, and Tony clarifies, “ _I’m_ not most people.”

Peter laughs, carefree, refreshing, and Tony hardly realizes he’s moving until he’s set his mug aside, crossing the kitchen to fit himself between Peter’s legs. Neither of them are yet sure what’s _allowed_ , what’s not ( _Tony leans in to kiss Peter, feeling that smile part beneath his own_ )— there aren’t ground rules for this sort of thing, but ( _Peter’s leg hooks around the back of his thigh, pulling Tony's body flush against his_ ) maybe for now, whatever feels good, feels _right_ , is exactly that.

They don’t know where the hell this is going or where it leaves them, but for the first time in ages, Peter doesn’t feel like he needs to figure it out, or even to reconcile the two parts of himself. All his secrets, questions and the answers he’s managed to find are right here, on display for the only other person who knows them all, and for now, for as long as he can, he'll let himself be content.


End file.
